


Ursa Minor

by omnomanon



Series: Nemesis [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Bears, F/M, Gen, Nemesis - Freeform, omnomanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:45:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omnomanon/pseuds/omnomanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning from Chateau Haine, Marian Hawke learns that Fenris’ ideas regarding freedom extend further than she’d previously thought. A Nemesis side-story in two parts- dedicated to the lovely NineShadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ursa Minor

Ursa Minor  
Chapter 1- Homecoming

 

“ _And how exactly is one ‘dead-ish?’”  
Fenris_

It was good to be back in Kirkwall.

Even though she’d never enjoy the city as much as any of the cities in Ferelden, after seven years the City of Chains finally felt like home or at least some semblance of one. Her impending spinster-dom was easily explained through her title and though she didn’t much appreciate the concept she certainly lacked the ability to cast off the nobility’s seemingly ceaseless approaches for courtship and marriage. The last few days had been comprised of much hubbub, even with Varric tending her mail and seeing to whatever odd jobs people needed done there was still a startling amount of mail. Correspondence from the Viscount and Knight-Captain Cullen, from Lady Elegant and Tomwise- could she not spend a week at home in peace without someone demanding she run an errand?

Being the revered Champion of Kirkwall had its distinct disadvantages. She could presently name twenty-seven specific reasons, all neatly penned and resting on her desk. ‘Hawke, my poodle has gone missing.’ ‘Hawke, an unsavory business contact wishes to publicly rebuke me for my trespasses.’ ‘Hawke, a courtship between you and my idiot son could make us unbelievably wealthy and bring great honor and glory to the long-standing noble house of blah, blah, blah, get married, blah, blah, spit out some babies, blah, blah…’ Maker, it felt like the instant she arrived home everyone immediately clamored for her attention.

It felt more and more like upon her return from her foreign excursions she became more an item of commodity and less an actual person as far as the inhabitants of Kirkwall were concerned.

Well, not all of them- thank the Maker for big favors from short men. Varric had dropped by yesterday and as of yet was the only member of her merry little entourage that was even aware she’d returned. That dwarf had his paws in absolutely everything. They’d caught up on the events of the last month and he extracted a promise for a proper party to celebrate her return on Thursday at the Hanged Man before he tipped his imaginary hat at her and went on his way. An official homecoming get-together meant she could focus on getting her affairs in order, which was a daunting task to say the least.

After a fruitless and utterly boring morning of reading through the _Hawke, please something’s_ and _Dearest Champion’s, we humbly request’s_ , she seriously considered retreating to foreign soil where she could live out her life in relative peace. Irritation had sent her thoughts flying outward bound before she finally readied herself for a light meal when a particular letter caught her eye- not the letter itself but the handwriting scrawled over the envelope. It wasn’t lettering so much as chicken-scratch and bore a strong resemblance to Fenris’ handwriting from only two scant years ago.

* * *

_Serah Hawke,_

_I have heard you are very good at finding things. When my troupe arrived in Kirkwall one of our performers, Io, lost a personal book- brown with a crescent moon stamped into the leather. We don’t have much money but will offer what we can on its return. We are camped just outside Kirkwall if you should happen upon it._

_Gratefully,  
Troy_

* * *

Hmmm, that explained the caravan that had been setting up at the perimeter of the city when she’d returned from Orlais. It wasn’t so unusual to see the Dalish traveling in such a manner but the inhabitants of the camp appeared to be human, which was extremely strange to say the least. Of course she’d heard of bands of gypsies traversing Ferelden but had never heard even a mention of such troupes residing in the Free Marches. She’d meant to visit it before now but her attention had been seized by the mountain of mail that awaited her. It seemed fate deigned to provide her with the perfect excuse and she relished in the opportunity to explore the unknown. Perhaps that was one of the primary reasons she’d ended up as Champion in the first place- also magic, that had certainly helped. All she had to do was find a brown book with a crescent moon on the…

Wait.

Hawke huffed a sigh as she heaved herself from the desk, nearly toppling the stacks of letters, and shuffled over to her rucksack, pulling it open to rifle through the contents. Potions, herbs, various trinkets that could be bartered off… and then she found it. Sure enough, just there near the top was a book bearing a very strong resemblance to the one this Troy had requested. This particular tome had been sitting alone on a barrel in the Hightown market and Hawke had taken it on the off chance she could learn the owner. She seemed to have the strangest luck when it came to finding other people’s things. Then again, she had inexplicable luck in general as evidenced by her latest adventure and her baffling win-lose streak at Wicked Grace which kept her ledgers solidly in the green.

Neutrality, it seemed, was her Maker-granted gift.

She flipped through the book briefly- after all it would be unforgivably foolish to return a potentially dangerous tome to a complete stranger- but her examination revealed no strange spells or potion’s recipes, just page after page of the daily goings-on and love-interests of a young girl. That thought made her smile. A decade ago, her own journal contained some of the very same things. Does he like me? Am I pretty enough? Her good fortune saw the answers as ‘yes’ more often than ‘no’ but she remembered the trepidation of infatuation and documented the facts quite frequently in Ferelden. She hadn’t attended to her diary in a while; perhaps she’d spend the night catching up.

It was nearing noon, so she should be able to scrounge up a few people to make the trek out of the city walls. The question remaining now was who to take. She rose and quickly changed into a light set of robes before heading to the door, patting Hector once on the head before traversing into the bright daylight, where Kirkwall sprawled before her in all it’s oppressive glory.

Aveline had returned to the Barracks immediately upon their return, smirking that she was convinced Donnic had everything in proper order but still hurrying a little faster than her certainty should have carried her. The Guard-Captain would, doubtless, swamp herself with paperwork for the next week or so when she wasn’t reacquainting herself with her beloved husband. Sebastian returned to the Chantry, praying for the souls of Duke Prosper and that wretched wyvern the madman rode like a frothing pony. The Chantry-bound prince suggested that Hawke do the same but she felt ill at ease in the chapel. It was a singular condition she held the most in common with her fellow mages and one she knew frustrated Sebastian, who simply lacked the experience to understand how terrifying the Chantry could be to a known apostate, albeit a moral one.

Her feet took her on their own course, swaying her through the crowd unencumbered by the sheer thought of any specific destination. Merrill was likely busy obsessing over that blasted mirror- that would need to be dealt with soon. The elf had already heavily hinted that she required Hawke’s deeper involvement in restoring the relic. Varric had a full week of meetings slated with one of Bartrand’s nurses despite the scoundrel’s irreparable condition. Isabela was always an option, the pirate would certainly appreciate Hawke’s thorough and eloquent critique of Orlesian hats. The Maker knew Anders could use a bit of sunshine. Varric had informed her the Darktown healer had been locked up in clinic for almost two months after she’d left, only leaving when he’d been physically dragged out. Without her there to constantly fuss over him, she seriously doubted Anders had gone topside at all.

For a man who proclaimed such hatred for the Deep Roads, the last three years had seen him transforming into quite the subterranean recluse. Varric made a point to tell her that he worried about Anders; his condition was becoming increasingly disquieting and it concerned her. Varric was clearly troubled as well. It was hard to watch her mentor slip away like this into something she suspected could be both dark and terrible. It was one of the main reasons she continued her tutelage under the healer even as he drifted further and further into himself. Possessed as he was, she knew it was vitally important that Anders keep his link to humanity. Little as she liked it, right now she suspected that her acting as his link to the living was that last thing that kept him holding on.

A man nearly bowled her over in his haste to move toward the noble houses before she finally stopped abruptly when she came upon a large stone door, realizing perhaps too late that her feet had led her directly to Fenris’ manor. There was no point in even pretending that she wasn’t going to take the brooding elf with her, provided he wasn’t off doing some sort of mercenary work. Electing as always to forgo knocking, Hawke sauntered into Fenris’ mansion like she had every right to be there. The air was still and silent. Part of her was dimly surprised that the elf hadn’t already taken up arms to ward off the potential intruder. Perhaps he was off working, she wondered as she moved further into the dreary foyer.

“Fenris!” she shouted before cocking her head and resting her hands on her hips. The scuffling of rapid movement shuffling sounded from upstairs along with the clang of metal dragging briefly against stone. It was either Fenris or a mercenary or slaver about to have a _very_ bad day, so she waited semi-patiently as she watched for the sound to manifest into the cause behind it.

Then the white-haired elf popped his head over the railing of the mezzanine and peered down. His eyes widened for a moment before his face settled into a self-satisfied smirk. “I see you have returned,” were the only words he said, like her presence was inevitable and not anything that may have ever been left to chance.

She laughed at that and tilted her head back to give the elf a wry grin. Fenris had been out of Kirkwall doing a bit of work for Meeran when Tallis had led her, Sebastian, and Aveline on that forsaken excursion to Chateau Haine. Surely he’d be expecting some sort of apology for being left behind but instead she quipped, “Or I could simply be a spectre that decided haunting you could be rather fun, shall I rattle some chains and make with the scary noises?”

“I shall pass, I think,” he smiled and nodded, still regarding her from his rather lofty perch but taking on a lazier slouch as he leaned more heavily against the bannister. “And how was Orlais?”

She rolled her eyes before she began counting on her fingers as she answered, “I was nearly killed by boredom, then a wyvern, a nobleman, a gaggle of poorly dressed guards, another wyvern along with a mad duke, then boredom again.” She finished off her counting with an exasperated toss of her hands and grumbled, “The next time I meet an elf who wears shoes…”

Fenris interrupted her, “This Tallis wore shoes? With soles?” He cocked his head curiously and shifted his weight more fully onto the stone bannister, letting the muscles of his arms bear a greater portion of his weight. His strange, unworldly stillness reminded her vaguely of the gargoyle statues she’d seen perched around the Chateau, looming over, peering down all silent and knowing.

She pushed that vision from her mind before she resumed her playful demeanor, nodding and adding with a mock gravity, “And was Qunari.”

Fenris released a low whistle before openly staring at her, scrutinizing her appearance as though he expected to suddenly find her arm had fallen off or she’d been partially decapitated and somehow failed to notice. When his eyes finally met hers, she did a quick twirl to demonstrate that her intestines were not dangling from some gaping wound on her back. The quick flush of redness over his ears told her that the stare had not been entirely meant to ascertain her well-being.

She clasped her hand over her wrist and leaned against the wall and cocked an eyebrow up at him with a small, knowing grin. Fenris cleared his throat deliberately as he averted his gaze. “Well, you seem no worse for wear,” he managed lamely. “Was the duke insane or merely angry?”

The concept that in Prosper’s case brands of madness could be mutually exclusive ripped a short laugh from her before she replied, “First one and then both. Now he’s just… sort of dead-ish.”

“Dead-ish?” he questioned with a curious smirk and leaned forward. “And how exactly is one ‘dead-ish?’”

“I mean, the fall certainly would have killed most men but that doublet could have cushioned the fall,” she reasoned. When the elf failed to react to her bait, she amended, “Very poufy. Even Aveline’s sword failed to fell him outright.”

He gave her a sardonic shake of his head as he began descending the stairs. “And precisely how far was this fall?”

She thought back, replaying that vile little man plummeting toward the infinitely distant rocky earth below before she gave the elf an affirming nod and replied, “Pretty far.”

“I wish you would defy whatever compulsion it is that sends you on these excursions without me,” he grumbled as he casually stepped over one of the skeletons lying prostrate on the ground like it was a daily occurrence, which in the elf’s case it was. The corpses that littered his home allegedly acted as a deterrent to the hunters but it still bothered her to see them unburied. Her gaze lingered on one set of remains and Fenris in a moment of grace moved his body to block it from her line of sight.

She gave him a grateful nod and answered, “You weren’t set to be back for two weeks and if we were going to make the hunt then we needed to leave immediately. Other than the people trying to kill me, the wyverns, and my brief incarceration in that wretched Orlesian dungeon, it was all incredibly dull.” Oddly enough, those words didn’t seem to inspire confidence from the elf, so she grinned and finished with, “I daresay the most exciting part was when I spent the entire ride back campaigning for Sebastian to grow a beard like Prosper’s. Didn’t take, sadly. It would have been the talk of Kirkwall. ‘Repentant Scoundrel Uses Face for Angry Hedgehog Preserve. Andraste Weeps. Humanity Saved.’ It would have solved everything.”

That comment didn’t earn her the laughter she’d been hoping for. All she heard was the elf’s huff of frustration before he made a sound that lingered somewhere between irritation and disturbance. “Must you be so glib about all this?” he asked quietly. “What if you had been hurt?”

“Why, Fenris, do you mean to say you worry about me?” She took the opportunity to edge a little closer as she asked the question. Both of them knew the answer but she inquired regardless. It was the only way she knew to ask him to tell her that they were not merely friends. Even if it was slightly sadistic to make him say it, she needed his assertion that he still cared even though he kept so distant. Even if he could give her nothing more than an affirmation of his concern, she deserved at least that much, dammit, and they hadn’t seen each other in over a month.

He sighed softly, bringing his hand up for a moment as though to touch her arm before thinking better of it and lowering it back to his side. Instead of finishing the gesture, he met her gaze and simply said, “You know I do.”

She took a hesitant step closer but kept her hands cautiously at her side as she invaded his personal space. Waves of heat emanated from his body and seeped through her robes. Were all northerners were as warm as Fenris or had the lyrium somehow elevated his natural body temperature? Or was the perceived warmth just something she imagined? These were the questions she distracted herself with as they stood so close but so carefully apart from one another. “You’re not the only one who worries, Fenris,” she softly reminded him as she permitted her fingers to brush against the scarf he’d stolen from her home- not touching his skin… that would be too overt.

“I know.” He stared at her for a long moment, leaning in just slightly as though he were contemplating a kiss before he lowered his eyes and backed away. Clearing his throat, he casually asked, “How long have you been home?”

The moment dissipated, puffing away like pipe smoke, becoming both invisible and aromatic as it vanished but permeated the air, silent, unseen, and undeniably present. “Four days,” she replied, suppressing a smile at his momentary scowl. “You will not believe the mail that’s piled up- even with Varric minding my affairs.”

He paced away from her and contemplated his weapons rack. Fenris had several small arsenals installed throughout the inhabited areas of the mansion. The state of the weapons indicated that they were all properly cared for and maintained; the elf could also name off the attributes and enchantments of every single one. “I’m rather indebted to him at the moment,” he mumbled absently as he selected one, considered it for a moment and then returned it carefully. “He offers no explanation as to why every meeting must end with cards.”

She snorted, a sound that set her mother’s teeth on edge. “Because he has an astronomical tab at the Hanged Man. I figured you knew.”

The sound of his chuckle carried through the still, cool air as he examined his various blood letters. If he could ever rid himself of his compulsive weapons hoarding habit, he could easily pay off any debt he owed Varric in spades. But he’d never surrender his arsenal and they both knew it. “He and Isabela are shameless cheats,” he reminded her.

“And you are a terrible bluff,” she replied with a dash of impertinence. “After today’s task, we’ll head over and I’ll see if I can help you win some of it back.”

He stopped and faced her, leaning against the rack as he watched her and asked, “A task, you say?” The promise of work meant Fenris would select his weapon based on the threats he may face. That sort of methodical, if slightly obsessive, forethought was one of the main reasons he ended up accompanying her so often.

“There’s some traveling gypsy caravan just outside Kirkwall and the ringleader wants me to find something I’ve already found. I figure it’s easy money and a good way to reacquaint myself with Kirkwall’s indigent, unwashed masses after the opulence of the lavishly impractical fashion of Chateau Haine.”

He smirked and quickly selected a large sword- enchanted to burn upon impact if she recalled correctly and of which she certainly approved. “Poor sparrow,” he simpered in a tone too dulcet and smooth to be proper mockery. “Did the nasty Orlesians trick you into a proper gown?” He chuckled absently to himself, adjusting the baldric on his shoulder before fastening the blade against his back.

She giggled at the idea herself. She liked the freedom of robes but had little use for actual dresses. What was the point of putting on a garment whose functionality left her little more than a beautiful, trussed hen? “Maker, no. I actually managed to get in wearing pants, believe it or not. Absolutely hideous if you ask me.” The sound of Fenris’ warm laughter filled the empty spaces of the massive room; he knew she abhorred pants nearly as much as she hated dresses but it was a near contest.

She smirked at his amusement, “I don’t deny it was dreadful outfit but fortunately it kept Lord Cyril’s attention firmly on my posterior instead of my hand.”

Fenris coughed loudly, sputtering as he swung his gaze over, his eyes settling briefly on her aforementioned derriere. “And what was your hand doing?” The words were delivered from between gritted teeth as he tried to achieve the most casual tone he could muster.

“Stealing his keys, of course,” she quipped with a guileless smile. “Castles don’t just break into themselves.”

“Of course,” he muttered as he shook his head ruefully. “You are reckless, you know that.”

“It suits me,” she agreed obnoxiously. “Didn’t you know?”

“It does and I do,” he granted with a similarly annoying smirk. “Lead on.”

With the elf’s commitment, she dared to venture deeper into the city. Fenris was remarkably silent when they made the turn towards the undercity, likely already suspecting this outing wouldn’t be just the two of them. Anders was a regular companion, more so lately than usual due to his abject anti-socialness. Someone had to mind Anders as he descended deeper into Justice’s grasp. That task fell, sadly, to her as she was the only person who could goad the Darktown healer out of his clinic, which was strangely silent when they entered.

She asked Fenris for a moment, which he acquiesced to with a curt nod, as she quickly searched. Dread began to fill her when the sound of Anders’ voice reached her, causing her to glance back to verify the elf’s sensitive ears hadn’t caught it. If the warrior heard, he gave no indication of it so she sent a silent thank-you to the Maker and crept deeper into the clinic’s back rooms. When she found him, she knew already that she’d find no one with him. His recently developed habit of talking aloud to Justice unnerved her and prior to her departure, he’d taken to doing it much, much more.

A few weeks before she left, Anders and she had been tending to a mercenary who took an arrow to the shoulder. Not usually a serious injury but the shot had dislocated his shoulder and the arrowhead shattered in the socket. It was a nasty cleanup and midway through Anders just began mumbling to himself. Half the words she couldn’t make out but he seemed to have a very serious conversation that had nothing to do with the patient. When she snapped at him to quit, he had looked at her in abject confusion before asking what she wanted him to stop. When she told him he’d simply paled; he hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it.

She hadn’t even told Varric, too worried that speaking the truth aloud would make it somehow irreversible, irrationally fearing that once uttered the words would rip anything left of Anders away.

Surely enough, when she entered his office Anders was huddled over his desk scribbling furiously as he took notes from an ancient looking tome. The words he spoke weren’t Common. They sounded like Arcanum, which Anders never revealed he knew. Certainly, if Anders were able to speak Arcanum it stood to follow that he and Fenris would have squabbled in it at least a few times. Was this more of Justice’s influence?

Steeling herself, she entered the hovel he used as his private quarters. It was cooler in here than in the clinic. A filthy rotting wooden bed frame fitted with clean sheets pressed against the far wall, a desk that looked like it would collapse beneath the weight of a single book, and nearly every surface of the room including the walls and the floor was covered in parchment filled with cramped handwriting. Maker, she thought as she touched her fingers to his furious scrawl, even his handwriting was changing.

“Anders,” she called softly, trying to ignore the chill in the air, uncertain if it were emanating from the room’s inhabitant or from its lack of one. He ignored her- or didn’t hear her- and continued focusing on the papers before him. She dared closer, noisily rustling the papers as she moved through the mess, realizing this wasn’t his manifesto he was working on. “Anders,” she repeated a little more loudly before she finally reached out to touch her hand against his shoulder.

He jolted from the imaginary shockwave her touch produced and spun to his feet, bright blue cracking over him for a split second. She held perfectly still, letting Anders have the chance to recognize her and force Justice back down. “Hawke, you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” he admonished gently with a short bout of nervous laughter before reaching out to give her a friendly embrace. “Nice to see the Orlesians couldn’t convince you to go native.”

There was little point in acknowledging what had just happened, that Justice had very nearly attacked her. Anders knew he was losing control of Justice and the spirit within him hadn’t been terribly keen on her to start with. The last month had clearly seen little sunshine and much solitude for the abom… mage. Hopefully, getting him back into a social setting would correct some of the backslide.

So she allowed a mischievous smirk spread over her lips as she broke away and lifted the hem of her robes just slightly to stick out one of the very pretty, extremely expensive boots she’d picked up from a shop the Sister Leliana had recommended in the city just outside Chateau Haine. They were just protective enough to be practical and the slight heel was incredibly cute while the color of the leather was a perfect match for her blue robes, which were arguably her most flattering. After all, just because she was living like a Chantry sister did not mean she had any intentions of dressing like one.

She hadn’t been able to resist purchasing them… or the seven other pairs of shoes that caught her eye. Perhaps it was her background in dancing but she’d always had a real fondness for shoes that she never grew out of. It was her private, girly vice that she felt she could afford. Sebastian and Aveline were sworn into silence, although the prince was also roped into helping her carry the boxes home.

Anders rolled his eyes. “It’s like you’re trying to make up for the fact that elves don’t wear shoes by owning four times more than anyone. How many shoes do you need?”

She pointed her finger at the end of Anders’ elegant nose, delighting in watching him go momentarily cross-eyed, before she playfully growled, “Don’t judge me. Besides, they’re not just stylishly elegant but ruggedly practical.”

“They are very pretty, Hawke,” Anders admitted quickly, “but you must have a hundred shoes.”

“Oh, stop exaggerating,” she huffed. The number was much closer to fifty than to one hundred… probably. No, she was eighty, no sixty, percent certain she didn’t have one hundred shoes unless Anders was counting them individually and not as pairs, which wasn’t even fair. “Now if you’re finished talking about how amazing my shoes are we have a job outside Kirkwall.”

“I’m… extremely busy right now, Hawke.”

Dramatically, she poked her head out of his office and swept her eyes over the clinic. Fenris remained still as stone as he curiously met her eyes. She turned back and announced, “No one’s out here except for Fenris. No patients means you can come out of your little cave and get some sun on your bones.”

“You mean I get to accompany you _and_ Fenris? Oh, hooray for me. Do you think we could invite Sebastian as well? How about your brother?” That earned him a glare accompanied by a low, playful growl. His lips broadened into a wide, happy smile as he grabbed his staff and left his office, loudly announcing, “Well Marian, if you’re that desperate for some good company on your trek, I’ll certainly accompany you.”

Fenris straightened noticeably and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Anders couldn’t resist the opportunity to take a jab at Fenris and the elf was similarly disinclined to diplomacy when it came to the healer. It was glaringly obvious to even herself that she was the source of more than a few of their arguments but didn’t dwell much on it; those two would bicker about the existence of gravity if the subject came up. She’d wagered that nearly every nasty thing that one thought about the other had likely already been said but was certain they were both creative enough to find new, trifling ways to continue the same argument they’d been having for nearly six years.

Surely enough, they had just begun to ascend into Lowtown when Fenris casually asked,

“Do you often allow copies of your manifesto to litter Hawke’s books?”

“My manifesto?” Anders asked in a voice that was simultaneously baffled and distrustful. “You’ve read it?”

“Only a bit,” Fenris admitted in a voice she recognized as a thinly-veiled attempt to sound sincere, which led her to thinking that this conversation was about to take a sharp, annoying turn. He confirmed her suspicions when he continued with, “You misspelled ‘oppression’ on the second page. I took the liberty of burning them to spare you the embarrassment. You’re welcome.”

Years of witnessing this behavior suppressed the exasperated groan that threatened to escape her. That was a low blow for the elf and far pettier than she expected of him; but then again, the elf and the mage inspired each other to such sub-levels of pettiness it almost earned her respect. Those manifestos were also her property so long as they were shoved into her books and it irked her slightly that Fenris could set fire to items in her home without compunction. She wanted to break in or glare at him at least. However, history told her that the best way to handle this situation was to go temporarily deaf and keep either of them from dragging her into it.

“You bastard, you think setting fire to words takes away their power? Even if you destroyed every copy in Kirkwall, you could never extinguish the ideas burning inside them,” Anders retorted hatefully. “The pen is far mightier than the sword.”

Fenris barked out a cruel laugh and replied, “I will concede to your point only when you demonstrate to me how to properly decapitate someone with a pen.”

“Quite simple, really. First you take the pen, grip it firmly in your left hand, then use telekinesis to rip the skull from the spine. Bloody but extremely effective if you’re into that sort of thing,” Anders huffed indignantly.

Fenris, thankfully, said nothing beyond that; he simply ducked his head down and grumbled a long series of Arcanum to himself before falling blissfully silent as they reached Lowtown. The snowfall of his hair hid all but his mouth as he tilted his head forward. He was still watching her from behind his hair, she knew. This was just one of the many techniques he used to watch her unawares. She was too flattered to inform him that his surreptitious glances were far more obvious than he thought and she also knew he was too stubborn to admit that he knew it as well.

After picking up Isabela at the Hanged Man- “A lavish Orlesian spread and you wore _pants_?”- they made the short trek to the Gypsy camp. It was surprisingly busy; she saw Lady Elegant and Tomwise both perusing various reagents at one of the stalls as well as Meeran, who wore his typical I-think-I-smell-something-displeasing scowl. Merchants and buskers lined up around the perimeter of the camp, eager to relieve Kirkwall citizens of their hard-earned coin, but it wasn’t until they entered the camp itself that the spectacle truly began.

There were stages, large colorful banners, huge silken tents, men dressed as fools, barkers trying to entice the crowd into entering and the passers-by to hand over their coin. There were animals displayed in cages- monkeys, tigers, bears, and a few wolves that looked distinctly unhappy about being there. She pushed them from her mind and set about searching for Io so she could return the diary and get out of this strange place.

Io was actually fairly easy to find, she even had a huge banner outside her tent that read, “Io- Palm Reader and Fortune Teller! The Legendary Seer of Rivain!” Though Hawke seriously doubted a fifteen-year-old could have garnered any sort of legitimate notoriety for being accurate or whatnot, she nevertheless collected her measly sum for the non-existent trouble of finding the journal. As she was exiting the girl’s tent, she was nearly bowled over by a retreating Fenris, who looked pale and furious.

“Fenris, what…” she stammered.

He shook his head, staring furiously at the ground as he mumbled, “I must go. I will see you later.”

“Fenris,” she said again, reaching out to touch the disturbed elf’s arm.

It was clearly the wrong move as Fenris physically ripped himself away from her, eyes darting nervously around as if to see if his behavior had been noticed by anyone other than her. It was unlike him to be so panicked and on edge; she knew the lyrium could behave strangely depending on his state of mind and had little doubt that whatever provoked this behavior from him must have sent his markings into agony. Maker, she felt uncomfortable just looking at him.

“Hey,” she whispered softly, trying to regain his attention as though he were a spooked horse and not a sword-wielding paranoid. When his eyes slowly met hers again, she watched as he relaxed in an infinitesimal manner, smiling gently when she saw him calming slightly. “Hello,” she murmured as she took hold of the delicate red scarf he’d wrapped around his gauntlet.

He closed his eyes and ducked his head down before dully replying, “Hello.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I do not…” he huffed in frustration before re-selecting his words, “I am uncomfortable here.”

She shrugged casually and declared, “Then we’ll depart.”

“I…” and he trailed off, opening his eyes to stare into the distance for a few long moments.

She hadn’t lied earlier, Fenris was a terrible bluff when the hand mattered to him. He needed to be alone, she understood, but couldn’t ask it of her; after all, he was as much her protector as she was his.

Tugging a bit on the scarf, she cocked her head slightly and watched his expression soften a bit more- he’d confessed once after a reading lesson that her Mabari Hector often mimicked that expression. “Do you think you could drop into the estate and let Bodahn know I won’t be home for supper?” she asked casually as she dropped her fingers away from the scarf on his wrist. “I’d hate for he and Orana to bother themselves cooking if no one will be there.”

He smiled that peculiar little half-smile of his and nodded quickly. “Of course. I shall go now if you have no further need of me.”

“Thanks.” They both heard and understood the things neither said- her excuse for his departure and his veiled gratitude. Pressing her luck just a bit further, she asked, “Will you be meeting us at the Hanged Man tonight? Perhaps we could use your share from today to win back a little of your debt?”

“Perhaps.” The smile that graced his face was easier than the last. “But do not wait on my account.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she quipped with a guileless smile that dropped the second Fenris disappeared from her sight. The menial chore of the missing diary having already been completed, she began the new task of discovering what spooked the elf so badly. Once he told her that during his flight south, he’d fallen in with a band similar to this one for a brief while but left because he found them to be too similar to the Dalish. He’d been completely fine with the idea of coming here so something about this caravan must have been unique.

She wandered through the little camp, seeing Anders looking pensively at some of the strange wares the gypsies had come across and Isabela leading two strapping strongmen into an isolated tent; she chuckled to herself at that. It was nice that some things never changed- hopefully Anders hadn’t run low on his stocks of potions during Hawke’s absence.

Moseying through the camp, she saw nothing that she imagined could have set Fenris so far on edge, even going so far as to eavesdrop on conversations to determine if anyone had some sort of news from Tevinter. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

It was as good a time as any to depart, she figured. All she’d need to do is find Anders- there was very little point in waiting around for Isabela to disengage from her threesome. Instead, she approached the tent the three lovers occupied, rolling her eyes when she heard a variety of moans and giggles, and announced loudly, “Isabela, we’re heading back into Kirkwall! Have fun!”

“Oooh, Hawke. You know you could join us, you know,” Isabela’s lusty voice panted through the canvas. “Always room for one more.”

Hawke smirked evilly to herself. Aveline had revealed on the way back that just prior to their Orlesian excursion a certain pantsless pirate had crashed a gala hosted by one of Starkhaven’s visiting dignitaries and created an awful embarrassment for Sebastian and the Guard-Captain, not to mention Meredith, Cullen, and apparently herself as well. Now seemed like the perfect time for a little bit of payback.

“Come on, Isabela,” she called loud enough to overpower the moans sounding from within the tent. “How long do you realistically think you’ve got before these two realize you’re a man?”

All sounds immediately ceased. A bird cawed somewhere overhead. Distantly, she heard the barkers advertising their wares.

Then the quiet was broken with the “ _What_?” from the astonished male voice within.

“Do these look manly to you?” Isabela called desperately. “She’s _joking_ , Willard!”

“Edward!” came the affronted male voice within.

“Whatever! Just…” There were sounds of hasty shuffling and shifting of fabric before the tent flap opened just enough for Isabela to pop her head out, lipstick smudged and looking irritated as well as immensely amused at the same time. “Not funny, Hawke!” she growled, unable to repress her giggles enough to indicate real anger.

“Hilarious,” Marian corrected with a wide, happy grin.

A naked arm protruded from a new gap in the tent and pointed an accusatory finger at the apostate. “That was not nice, Hawke. That was _very_ not nice. Now please try and remember what a nice, wonderful person you are and inform dear Edward and Jamal that I am all woman.”

“After your rather creative stunt at the gala a last month, I’m certain you can think of a way to prove it to them.”

“Hawke…” Isabela whined.

“You will write a letter of apology to the Starkhaven dignitary,” Hawke ordered in a tone that left no room for bargaining.

“As soon as I am done here,” the other woman agreed hastily before tacking on, “Come on, Hawke, don’t be such a pill.”

“Oh fine,” Hawke muttered playfully before announcing, “She’s all woman- possibly more woman than you two can handle. You’ll have the time of your life.” Isabela beamed as the mage added, “Happy now?”

“Very… oh! Cheeky man!” There was a sound of slapping flesh and Isabela quickly disappeared from the tent, almost as though she were bodily pulled. “See you tonight, Hawke!” her voice called quickly before whatever had been happening before her rather rude interruption started back.

In a bid to make a hasty retreat lest she become more awkwardly acquainted with the pirate and her new friends, she turned to find Anders standing almost directly behind her, arms crossed with a rather entertained smirk gracing his face.

He rolled his eyes at a particularly lusty shriek and mused, “I suppose that means I’ll need to make up a new batch of the salve.”

“Isabela and the Blooming Rose depleting your stock? Need a hand? We can head to the Hanged Man afterword.”

“With my favorite apostate?” He chucked to himself, “Always.”

They walked through the camp toward the exit passing the animals once again. Her attention momentarily captured, she smiled at the monkeys, chittering away and bouncing around in their confinement. One innocently reached from between the bars toward Anders, opening his black eyes widely and earnestly as he turned his palm up, silently begging for a treat. A pitiful, cooing sound escaped her and the pout that fell over her had Anders rolling his eyes and reaching into his pocket for a crush of bread and presenting it to the monkey. In a flash and a flurry of curses, Anders’ bread was gone, as was his ring and a button from his cuff, swallowed into the primate’s belly with a wide, toothy grin.

Laughter wracked Marian’s body until she was practically propped up against Anders. “We could always wait for it to come out the other end,” she offered at which point the other healer stepped away and let Hawke fall heavily onto her bottom, which only prompted her to howl harder, the monkeys joining in loudly as she struggled to catch her breath.

Anders was busy in his failed attempts at shooting her his best I-am-not-even-slightly-amused-with-you looks, which he’d never managed to accomplish to date, when he reached down and helped her back to her feet. An awkward placement of his boot had her tripping heavily back down but when she hit the ground on all fours and heard a low growl, her eyes immediately rose up to meet furious yellow and wicked sharp teeth.

Scrambling backwards until her back was pressed against Anders’ shins, she watched in horror as the wolf lunged at the bars, snapping and snarling as it hurled it’s massive grey body against the metal as though it meant to beat itself to death against this method of imprisonment. Warm hands caught her beneath her elbows and pulled her to her feet, allowing her to lean against a solid body as she watched this wretched display of rage and frustration. “Watch it, Marian,” Anders warned as he helped prop her up. “A beast like that will tear your throat out if you get too close.”

This wretched creature was going to kill itself if this kept up. Just as that thought rang so solidly through her mind, one of the caravan members blew a dart through the cage and into the wolf’s neck; the beast howled, thrashing it’s heavy head against the bars and the floor for nearly two minutes before it finally collapsed docilely, staring out at Hawke with one dilated pupil, thick tendrils of drool leaking from his maw. When she found her feet again and pulled away from Anders, his hands dropped away effortlessly; the necessity for physical contact had ended.

Anders’ large hands hovered in the air surrounding her arms, seeming to notice her distress but unsure what measures to handle it would be appropriate. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” she answered, smiling hesitantly until Anders’ dropped his hands, but she couldn’t shake the disquiet that fell over her with every strangled gasp of the animal before her. Maker, little wonder Fenris was so spooked- this sort of treatment was nothing short of barbaric.

“You’re thinking of Fenris,” Anders supplied gently.

She snorted, the unladylike sound perking the ears of the doped lupine for a moment before they settled back down. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, you are more than a little transparent when it comes to him- at least to me, that is,” he added almost as an afterthought before his hazel eyes regarded the drugged beast lying helplessly before them. His eyes softened, the ghost of blue flashing across them for a fraction of a second before he sighed, “You know, I think I’ve got enough of that salve to last me another few days. I haven’t picked up all the necessary supplies for a new batch and I’ve got a few other potions I’m running a bit low on. How about we meet in the market tomorrow and then spend the day getting my stocks replenished?”

She sighed with a small smile, recognizing the same subtext she’d used with Fenris less than an hour ago being repeated back to her by Anders. “That sounds good,” she answered. “To the Hanged Man then?”

“Fantastic,” Anders announced joyfully with a heavy clap on her back. “You can drink and tell me about how the Choir boy liked Orlais and I just might tell you the location of the Seneschal’s latest rash…”

* * *

_End of Chapter 1_

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! It’s been a while! Surgery went fine but real life proceded to kick me in the pants as soon as my recovery was completed. The next chapter of Nemesis has been sent off to the betas and should be posted shortly.
> 
> As always, massive thanks to BuriedBeneath and AmericanCorvus for giving this a looksee. Even bigger thanks for everyone’s enduring patience and for everyone who takes the time to read and review!
> 
> And a special shout out to NineShadows. This was her mayhem too.


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